


Long Distance

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Phone Sex, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: “What are you wearing, Doctor?”





	Long Distance

Her motel room is an anonymous place. A bedside lamp, a cheap polyester comforter over a mattress that sags in the middle, air conditioner and color tv—variations on a theme. This one smells of cigarette smoke and carpet cleaner. The neon vacancy sign flickers outside her window illuminating the nearly empty parking lot. It is a place far, far below her standards, the last place anyone would look for her, located in some dismal rural nowhere. Which is precisely why Bedelia has chosen it.

She keeps moving, always with one eye looking over her shoulder. Every flash of headlight, every creak outside her door sends her pulse racing. Perhaps it would have been wiser to stay, to have kept Hannibal where she could see him.

The thought of her singular patient stabs her with regret. She had followed the Chesapeake Ripper case with interest, her darkest suspicions confirmed when Will Graham was suddenly set free and Frederick Chilton imprisoned in his place. She sees, she knows that neither man is the face behind the Ripper’s veil and she wonders if Jack Crawford, obtuse as he is, knows it, too. Even more deeply, she wonders if Hannibal knows just how much he has shown his hand—his poker face is not as skilled as he believes it to be, especially when his heart is in the game. Were she still his psychiatrist, she would have advised against it, though she doubts he would have listened. When did he ever listen?

In that moment, Bedelia feels herself overcome by a reckless, absurd impulse. Before she quite knows why, the dingy Bakelite telephone handle weighs heavy in her left hand while the right punches a familiar number.

One ring, then two, then a click as Hannibal’s baritone answers, “Hello?”

Her heart flips and she gasps, audible enough to be heard on the other line.

“Bedelia, is that you?” he asks, voice suddenly warm with amusement.

“It is very late. I am sorry to bother you, but I did not think you would be in your office,” she says as primly as possible.

“You were expecting my answering service.” There is a loose, melancholy ring in his voice, one she half-recognizes from their after-therapy drinks. Hannibal’s voice is warm not only with amusement, but cognac, too.

“You’ve been drinking,” she observes, with a guilty glance toward her bedside table, the cheap plastic cup half-filled with ice and Dewar’s.

“Is that why you called? To chastise me about my alcohol consumption?”

“No,” she says quickly, afraid to say any more.

“Why did you call, Bedelia?”

Why…she isn’t exactly sure. What had she hoped to accomplish? She had wanted to hear the sound of his voice. She had not expected to miss him. “I am concerned about you, Hannibal. I have seen the news. You think you are in control, but you are being very reckless with the FBI. This whimsy of yours with Will Graham—it will get you caught.”

“I am touched by your concern, Bedelia, but how much more delightful it would be to hear your advice in person. I seem to recall you resigning as my psychiatrist.”

“I know,” Bedelia says. The regret in her voice is genuine.

There is silence at the other end of the line. It makes her nervous—could he be tracing the call? Is he seething, eager to hunt her down and punish her for the crime of abandoning him? But after several uncomfortable seconds, Hannibal asks, “What are you wearing, Doctor?”

The question takes her completely by surprise. “What?”

“It is very late, as you said. I picture you in a nightgown. Sea blue silk, flowing over you like water, to match your eyes. Am I right?”

A lump comes into her throat—are they really doing this now? “It’s navy.”

He chuckles in self-congratulation. “Lovely,” he pronounces. “And if I were to draw up the hem of your gown, what would I find? Matching panties, in a similar shade of blue no doubt.” He pauses. “Touch yourself there, Doctor—is the sound of my voice making you wet?”

Her fingers twitch reflexively, moving southward on command, but her brain pulls them back. “Hannibal,” she protests, “you and I…we can’t.”

“You ended our patient-psychiatrist relationship, Bedelia. You are unknown miles away, and as you have pointed out there is a risk we may never see one another again because of my reckless whimsy. If we do not indulge ourselves now, when?”

Bedelia goes very quiet and lifts the hem of her gown. She does not need to touch herself to know she is wet.

Hannibal takes her silence as agreement. “I’ve often wondered—are there lovely blonde curls down there or do you keep yourself smooth? Both are equally delicious to me.”

She lets her fingers skim over her sex. “I am…neatly trimmed.” The act of describing herself to him makes her even more wet. She slips off her underwear to allow herself better access.

“Of course,” he chuckles. “As well-manicured as those orchids you keep in your kitchen. I should have known.”

There is a long pause on the other line as he waits for her to respond. Does she ask about him? Ask him to do things to her? She is at a loss for how to proceed, not knowing the right script.

“Bedelia, are you still there?” he prompts.

“Yes,” she answers. “Hannibal…I’ve never. I don’t know.” The admission makes her feel weak.

“Shh, it is all right. For now, I will talk if that is easier for you. Unless you wish me to stop?”

“No,” she says, a bit too quickly. “I mean, please continue.”

She can hear him smiling through the phone, self-satisfied and eager, though he has the decency not to laugh. “Thank you for the perfume you left me. You know I have always admired it. I took it home with me. I smell it sometimes and think of you—like jasmine blooming at midnight. But it is not the same—it is missing your flesh, your  _scent_  to bring it to life. I’ve always enjoyed the way it laid over your musk, those times when you were aroused—dark and earthy mixed with light and sweet. Tell me, Bedelia, can you smell yourself now?” he asks in a low seductive purr.

Unthinking, she sniffs the air. The air is still heavy with smoke and industrial cleaner, but floating on top, just the barest hint of sex. “Yes,” she answers.

“I wish I was there, to bury my nose in your curls. I wish to smell you, fragrant and ripe for me. All the better to taste you. I imagine that you have a rich taste, more savory than sweet.” It is so easy to immerse herself in the dark timbre of his voice; the sound of it washes over her in warm hypnotic waves. The telephone cord has become entangled between her legs; she moans when it brushes against her slit. “Very good, I want to hear you. I want to hear every noise you make.”

Her fingers tease her swollen lips, emboldening her. Something about this space, the distance between them has given her the safety to be a bit reckless. “How would you taste me?”

“I would tease you open, parting your folds with my tongue, delving inside just a bit.” Her fingers follow the path of his words, caressing and stroking her swollen lips. “I would torture you with gentleness until you thrashed and begged for me to give you the main course.” No doubt he knows she is touching herself in earnest now. Moans and gasps escape her lips and she finds herself nearing climax, quicker than she ever has before—hearing his deep voice tell her what to do, what he’d like to do, is far more arousing than her naughtiest fantasies of them together.

“And then when you could take no more,” he says, drawing out the words deliciously, knowing that she is close, “I would wrap my lips around your aching bud and feast on you until you climaxed.”

His words are all the permission her body needs to go over the edge. She comes hard and quick against her slick fingers and the sound of her climax echoes throughout the small room. Bedelia has never been very vocal during sex, but she is certain her cries were loud enough to be heard through the thin motel walls.

“ _Brava_ ,” Hannibal tells her. The words would be pretentious coming from almost anyone else, but she knows he means it as the highest compliment, that her pleasure is more beautiful than art.

He has awakened a hunger in her, a streak of exhibitionism she has never known existed. And she feels she has only sampled the tiniest  _amuse-bouche_  of this new pleasure. “And you—are you hard?”

“Oh, very.”

She calls to mind her secret fantasies of him, of the many times her eyes lingered on his form in a way that was far from professional. “And are you very large?” she asks, nearly breathless.

“I am above average,” he says, voice coquettish and teasing. There is no doubt in her mind Hannibal knows the length and width of his cock down to the exact centimeter.

“Not only long, but very thick,” he adds. “So thick, your small hand could barely wrap itself around me.”

It does not matter that he is most likely exaggerating; the picture he has drawn has left her aching for more. She plunges two fingers inside herself, imagining him stretching her open. “What would you do if I was there right now?”

She hears a few gaps on the other end of the line and knows he has begun to stroke himself. When he answers, his voice is thick with lust, his accent heavier and more pronounced. “I would pull you on my lap and let you take your fill of me. Let you ride me while I took your silk covered breast in my mouth. I’d want to see you.”

“Yes,” she hisses, plunging in a third finger. The cord has become wrapped around her hardened nipple and she can almost feel him there, pinching her.

“Or maybe,” he says, voice hoarse, “maybe I would turn you around, pull up your skirt and take you hard and fast against my desk.”

Her fingers quicken their pace, plunging in and out, she feels her climax building again, the ascent before the plunge. “Yes, yes—I want you. More of you.”

“I’d make you feel the whole length of me, thrust against you over and over, making sure to hit that secret spot inside of you, pulling you against me, until you came again, knees shaking, spent in my arms.” The last words come out in a ragged whisper and are followed by a deep masculine groan. It’s all she needs to bring herself off again, muscles clenching around her fingers.

When they have both come down to earth again, Hannibal says, “I will not try to find you, Bedelia. But perhaps you might find it in your heart to let yourself be found. How much fun we could have with no cords and wires between us.”

The receiver clicks and the call ends. A seed has been planted, and Bedelia nurtures this possibility in her mind before drifting off to sleep, deep and satisfied and untroubled as she has not known in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> It would probably make more sense for Bedelia to be using some kind of burner cell phone but I wanted the old fashioned phone for maximum seedy motel ~aesthetic. 
> 
> I've always been enamored of the headcanon that Bedelia wasn't "found" by Jack--she let herself be found at the opportune moment when she could a) get immunity from prosecution and b) was ready to return to Hannibal's orbit.


End file.
